Donald Trump

Rule, Brextannia

Rule, Brextannia

I watched today, along with the rest of the world, in stunned horror, as Great Britain decided – against all predicted outcomes – to pack her very dignified trunks and take herself off for an extremely long weekend at the country estate. As her shiny Rolls Royce (one must buy British), weighed down with the collective clutter of a nation state’s realisation of what they had just done, and Boris Johnson’s ego, made its way along Pall Mall in a semi-triumphal tooting of one’s own horn, the number plates seemed to flash and change in the twinkling of an eye: GREAT BREXIT 1.

The Things We Leave Behind

The Things We Leave Behind

Because let's face it, kids. 2015 sucked. It sucked big, fat, hairy spiders. It was a year of hate, of sadness, of horror, and of general down and out big fat hairy spidery suckiness. If you had a reverse Olympics of sucky years, I reckon 2015 would be down in the anti-Gold medal position with 1888, when Frau Klara and Herr Alois decided to get on the Riesling one night in downtown Braunau am Inn, Austria, things got a bit zündend under the Federbett, and the result was the unspeakable horror that was Adolf Hitler.